Old Habits Die Hard
by Star Spangled Lady
Summary: Steve Rogers really, really wants a cigarette. And this new century really, really doesn't want him to have one.


"Ding" rang the bell above the door as Steve entered the gas station, heading to the counter to pay for his gas. He still couldn't believe the price of gasoline had gotten so high. It made him thankful he favoured his bike, rather than a car.

"Hello, sir, how may I help you?" said the pierced teenager behind the counter, looking and sounding bored. His bangs fell in front of his face in a precise and angled swoop, and Steve suspected he was wearing women's eyeliner. It never ceased to amaze him how some people in this century chose to present themselves. He had always had a "live and let live" approach to people's personal appearances, but some modern fashion choices he knew he would never understand. It made him feel much older than he really was, a feeling which he was slowly getting used to.

"I'm just at that pump over there," Steve said, pointing out the window to where his bike was parked. As the cashier rung up his gas, his eyes caught the familiar site of the cigarette display behind the counter. Suddenly, he couldn't help himself. He just wanted a smoke.

It wasn't that he didn't understand that they were bad for him and caused cancer. That was one of the first things he'd been told in this new century actually. The moment he'd requested a cigarette in the SHIELD interview room, to help dispel his nervousness, they'd told him that apparently cigarettes had been discovered to be one of the worst things you could do to yourself. This was news to him.

He'd smoked since he was 12, ever since one of the doctors his mother worked with at the hospital suggested that it might soothe his throat and help his asthma. He'd smoked with the other boys in the orphanage. Once he'd entered basic training, he'd smoked with the other recruits. Hell, one of his last memories with Dr. Erskine was of the two of them sharing a cigarette that last night before he'd undergone Project Rebirth. Booze was off limits for him at that point, but having a last cigarette (or last pack of cigarettes) was not.

In the war, it had been common for all of the Howling Commandos, including him, to chain smoke. Cigarettes had been included in their rations. The atmosphere at the Stork Club was always so thick with cigarette and cigar smoke that you could barely see a foot in front of your face. Of course, cigarettes didn't hold the same kick for him with his altered metabolism and healing, but the physical act of lighting a cigarette, of taking a drag, was still comforting and calming. And the doctors had never said a word to him about it.

Apparently, in this century smoking was absolutely not allowed. Even if he had demanded a cigarette in the harsh light of the SHIELD interview room, they had also informed him that the base was "non-smoking", a phrase that he was quickly becoming used to seeing everywhere, along with the symbol of his beloved cigarette with a giant red circle around it and a line declaring it off-limits. Well, he wasn't at SHIELD anymore. And dammit, he'd saved the world from the Chitauri. He owed himself a smoke.

"I, uh, don't suppose that you carry Lucky Strike, do you?" he said, pointing at the display.

"Huh?" said the cashier, whose nametag helpfully identified him as "Jason".

"The cigarettes? Do you carry Lucky Strike? Are they still around?" Steve clarified.

"I don't know what that is. We carry Camel, Marlboro, Winston..." the young man trailed off.

"Camel's not so bad. Sure, I'll take a pack of Camel Lights please." The young man grabbed a pack.

"That'll be $15.35 for the gas, plus $6.50 for the Camels, so $21.85 is the total. And I'll need to see ID please."

"$6.50? Really? That's highway robbery!" Steve said, but he pulled his wallet out anyway. How did anyone afford anything these days?

"And the ID?" The cashier pointed to a sign above the counter stating that cigarettes could only be sold to those 18 and over.

"Seriously?" he asked. "I'm 27."

"Yeah, right. ID please," said Jason, rolling his eyes.

Steve sighed, but reluctantly pulled out his drivers license, knowing what would come next. The cashiers eyes widened, and then a grin split his face and he started to laugh.

"Dude, are you serious with this shit? 1918? For reals? Whoever sold you this ripped you off, man," Jason asked, and returned the cigarettes to the shelf.

"Yes, I am serious actually," said Steve, getting frustrated. He hated being forced to bring up his status as one of the Avengers, but sometimes it was necessary. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"I don't know... a dumbass who paid for a fake ID that says he's 96 years old?" said Jason.

Now Steve had had enough. He was a war veteran, an American icon, and an Avenger. It was one thing to be denied a pack of cigarettes, but to be disrespected on top of it was too much. He was never one to complain, but this kid needed to be put in his place.

"Is there a manager around who I could speak with?" he asked, embarassed that things had gotten to this point.

"Yeah, sure, guy. It's your funeral," said Jason. "Yo, Kev!" he yelled calling to the back room.

The manager came out, and Steve swore that he couldn't have been more than a couple of years older than the kid. Despite Jason's identification of the man as Kevin, his nametag said "Earl", which for some reason annoyed Steve even more.

"Is there a problem, Jay?" asked the manager.

"Yeah, this guy wants to buy smokes, but his ID is ridiculous," explained Jason.

The manager took Steve's drivers license and examined it for a moment. Apparently, he paid more attention than Jason did to the news because his eyes widened and he looked up at Steve, then back down at the license verifying the name and date of birth in his mind. His posture straightened and he started to tremble slightly, and Steve knew that he'd been recognized.

"What's up?" said Jason. "You alright, Kev?"

"Yeah... I'm fine... Jason, do you know who this is?" the manager asked.

"Why's everyone keep asking that?" Jason asked.

"Jay, this is Captain America." That got the cashier's attention. Suddenly, everything in his demeanor changed. He suddenly seemed much younger than he probably was. Steve could never understand why being in his presence seemed to reduce people these days to small children.

"No way! Oh, man. That's crazy. Sorry, guy. I didn't know. Really, please don't hold it against me, Captain... Sir..." he said.

"It's okay," replied Steve. "Can you just ring me up please?" He took back his license.

"Sure, yeah", said Jason, but he paused as he reached for the cigarettes. "Are you sure, though, that you want these? Shouldn't you be, like, setting a good example for people and stuff? I mean, you're Captain America. It's kinda weird for me to sell you a pack of smokes." Jason stated.

And from the looks on the cashier and the manager's faces, Steve could tell he'd been backed into a corner. Now that they knew who he was, they also knew enough to be disappointed in him. It looked like smoking was one habit that Captain America just couldn't be seen participating in these days.

"You know what, Jason, you're right. Just the gas please." Steve paid the $15 and change for the gas and walked back out to his bike and drove off, angry. Sometimes, he really hated this century.


End file.
